Waif, chapter 1
by Besina
Summary: Pre-series: Sherlock during his junkie years and his experiences with the homeless.


Waif, chapter 1  
Written by Besina, April 2012

Rated: K+  
Characters: Sherlock, OC  
Pairings: none  
Story Type: friendship  
Warnings: mentions of drug use, foul language

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters and mean no copyright infringement by bringing them out to play, nor do I make any money by writing this fanfic.

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"Sherlock!" the voice rang through the streets, followed by its companion:

"Sherlock! You miserable twat, get back here and pay up!"

Sherlock, unfortunately doped to the gills, was stumbling through the streets as fast as possible, trying to outrun (seriously, out-stagger) his pursuers, he was trying to out-think them but the morphine was making that difficult. Why, oh why had he not waited to get home to shoot up? Too desperate for his fix. That'll teach him. And too distracted to remember not to take the route which would take him past the roughs he still owed money. That was, even in his estimation, stupid.

He hadn't much hope of outdistancing them; he'd have to lose them somehow. Which way? Which way then? He was in a part of town he had only theoretical, rather than practical knowledge of. As he stumbled his way down the broken-down pavement, a small hand gripped his wrist and pulled him into an alleyway. He looked down to see a small girl, frightened eyes, no older than eight, possibly seven, holding tight to his cuff. She pulled him partway down the alley, shoved aside a couple rubbish bins and pointed at a hole in the wall behind them. Sherlock, feeling this must be better than the alternative, got down on all fours and crawled in. She scampered in after him, turning briefly to pull the bins back into place, then began to re-stack some of the fallen masonry into the gap behind them. She went still as the voices neared on the other side of the wall. Luckily the bins themselves were not large enough for a grown man to hide in, so other than one of the men kicking one in frustration, they were largely ignored.

Crouching on the floor a few feet behind her, Sherlock saw her inhale and exhale with guarded relief. She scampered further into the building, out from under the low space they'd crawled into.

She captured his hand and headed toward the crumbling stairs leading upward. They emerged into a room lit only by the flitter of dull flames. A few eyes turned curiously toward them, but quickly went back to what they were doing as they saw the girl. Apparently, she was no stranger here, a haven for some of the homeless. He tried absently to place any of them as her parents, but none seemed to take that much of an interest in her, much less resemble her in any substantial way.

She pulled him along to a corner where a nest of blankets lay, and pushed him gently down to sitting on it. He got the clue and sank down on them. Morpheus was descending and he lay back, grasping her hand and smiling. "Thank you," he breathed, his lids feeling heavy, "What's your name?"

She shook her head.

"Don't know? Won't tell me?"

She shrugged.

"Well, you appear to be on your own here, which makes me guess you came from somewhere in our wonderful system of care. It's let you down more than once, or you wouldn't have resorted to this extreme." His words were slurring slightly but he thought himself on track as she continued to watch him, interest sparking behind her eyes.

"Well, I must call you something, as you so nobly saved me from a rather painful meeting. Young, on your own, resourceful, living here… waif seems to suit. Do you mind that name, Waif?"

She looked at the floor, smiled slightly and shook her head.

"Then Waif it is. Thank you, Waif." He ran the back of his fingers softly down her cheek before grasping her hand once again. "You don't speak do you, Waif?"

She shook her head, avoiding eye contact.

"It's not physical is it; you could speak once? No head trauma, injuries to the voicebox? You'd simply rather not, am I right?"

She nodded, looking embarrassed.

"No shame in it, Waif, I'm sure you've got your reasons. I can tell most of what I need to about you without you telling me anyway. Can you write?"

She nodded.

"Can't sign, though."

She shook her head.

"That's fine. If there's ever anything you absolutely need to tell me, just write it, okay?"

She quirked an eyebrow at him curiously as he began to fall off to sleep, wondering why on earth he thought they'd have any need to communicate as she doubted he'd be around after tonight.

He read her expression. "I owe you one, Waif, 221b Baker Street, if you need anything, call on me there. I'm not always in this condition. I live alone, save for the landlady downstairs. No one will bother you if you come to call."

The adrenaline wearing off, Sherlock yawned, his eyelids falling shut. Waif snuggled in close to him, both for safety, warmth, and to keep an eye on her newfound charge.

He was gone when she woke up that morning, covers tucked over her. A pen and a pad of paper sat on the floor next to her. The first page merely said: 'Sherlock, 221b Baker Street. Whatever you need, any hour.' The second page had a ten pound note tucked into it. She grinned as she tucked the notepad and its treasures into her somewhat grimy pocket.

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A/N: Reviews are love! If you have a favorite line, I'd love to hear it!

Brit-picking and Concrit always welcome!

If you like the story, please feel free to pimp it for me.

Hope you enjoyed! :)


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